Look After You
by mia101
Summary: Another Booth and Brennan oneshot after "The Wannabe in the Weeds". Booth's POV, post surgery.


_**A/N: not much to say on this one -- i know the last episode really got all our little fanfic brains churning, and i can't seem to stop hammering them out. good thing there's a new episode tomorrow... hope we're all ready for the rollercoaster ride. :) xoxo mia**_

**Look After You**

A one shot.

From his spot on the sofa, nestled under a blanket and propped up against pillows, he listens to the sounds of her in the kitchen, his ears picking up the familiar sizzle of a pan and the occasional beep of a timer. A book is tented across his chest, long forgotten as he listens to the sound of her humming, of the rushing of the faucet. The scent of dinner wafts easily into her living room, and he finally pushes the book aside, easing himself slowly to his feet, wincing slightly at the tug in his chest.

When he enters her kitchen she looks up from the stove in surprise, her eyes narrowing. "What are you doing up?" she mutters. "I told you to stay put."

He attempts to charm her with his smile. "I can _walk_, you know. I'm not an invalid."

She gives him an irritated look, turning back to tug a piece of pasta from a spoon and pop it into her mouth. "You should be off your feet."

Raising an eyebrow, he makes his way gingerly around her, reaching the refrigerator and tugging out a beer.

"Hey!" she yelps when she sees what he's holding. "No drinking – you're on painkillers."

He twists the cap off easily. "I didn't take any today."

She looks at him suspiciously, and he grins again. "I promise, Bones."

She mumbles a response he doesn't catch and he chuckles. "You know, you like me like this, don't you?"

"I don't know what you're referring to."

"Helpless," he says, smiling as he eases himself slowly onto a kitchen stool. "At your mercy. You like ordering me around."

She considers this seriously for a moment, so long in fact, that he nearly laughs. "I do kind of enjoy the shift in the power dynamic," she says lightly, turning back to the stove and grinding some pepper into whatever she has in the sauté pan.

"I knew it."

He catches the slight tilting at the corner of her mouth from her profile, seeing her attempt to suppress a smile. "I just want you to heal properly – the person they have me working with in your absence is completely ineffectual."

"So you've said," he says, unable to keep from grinning as he takes a sip of beer.

She ignores his comment, fussing over whatever meal she's preparing, and he watches her easily as she wipes her hands on the small towel hanging from the handle on the oven before turning to twist up and tug down something from a high shelf. Her shirt pulls up a bit in the back and his eyes flicker over the patch of bare skin suddenly exposed.

He's been here for five days. He'd been surprised when she'd turned his SUV at the stoplight outside of the hospital parking lot, heading east rather than towards his own house. Still weak and somewhat drowsy from medications, he'd been unable to argue with her when she'd insisted he stay with her, and hadn't really wanted to anyway.

He admits to having been a bit surprised by her offer. She'd been a near-constant presence at the hospital, leaving only for a handful of hours at a time to return to the lab, often sleeping in the chair near his bed. Still, she's been quiet. She has spoken little of that night, not once mentioned the fact that she'd shot his attacker to death only a matter of seconds after he'd dropped to the floor. She's spoken of his surgery, of his injury and recovery. She's updated him on a case she is trying to work on without him, has complained bitterly about the agent they've paired her with, and has mentioned only once that she'd been required to go in for questioning following the incident.

She has not mentioned Pam Nunan, nor has she mentioned the fact that he nearly bled to death in front of her.

She has tended to him gently and seriously, bringing plenty of his belongings to fill her guest room, making a larger breakfast for him in the morning while she eats a quick yogurt. She's rented him movies without even questioning his requests, having lugged over his television from his own apartment so that he has something to watch while she's at work.

But despite all this, she's remained at a distance, working on her novel in the evenings in her office after they've had dinner, retiring to bed after murmuring a quiet goodnight. Occasionally she's allowed her hand to linger on his shoulder as she pauses on her walk towards her bedroom, to let her eyes meet his a moment longer. But a wall is there when the night ends. The playfulness he has with her when she first returns home doesn't last – every night she seems to close off from him as the minutes tick by.

He misses her while she's at work without him. At first he'd assumed it was simple boredom, the weight of feeling useless heavy and constrictive, but he realizes now, as he relaxes slightly and tries to rest and regain his strength, that he begins to grow anxious if he hasn't heard the turn of her key in the lock once six o'clock rolls around. This could be their life – here, together. They could eat dinner, work quietly together in the evenings, drift to sleep next to one another. Except he's sitting here as a guest, instead watching her cook for him because he has a hole in his chest.

She dumps the pasta into a strainer suddenly, jarring him from his thoughts, and a billow of steam rises, making her jump back in surprise with a slight laugh, the strands of hair that have escaped the tie in the back curling with the heat. She turns to him, her cheeks flushed, and smiles. "You hungry? It's time to eat."

He nods, watching as she dishes up their dinner, carrying two plates over to the table and returning for the salad. Before he can stand, she suddenly appears at his side. "Want help?"

"I can do it," he says gruffly. He doesn't like the idea of her thinking he's unable to even stand up from a stool, and so he does so more quickly than probably should, and when he winces her arm instantly shoots around his waist.

"Okay?"

He nods. He's been capable of walking around on his own for a few days – her cautiousness is really unnecessary. But as he moves to the table, sinking carefully into the chair nearest hers, he realizes suddenly that he doesn't want to leave.

He can be on his own, without her assistance – he's probably been able to go home for two days now. Still, she has not suggested it, and so he doesn't either, content to listen to the steady sound of her typing in the other room in the evenings, to inhale the sweet, clean scent of her shampoo when she showers in the morning that drifts down the hall. He likes the music she listens to while she cooks, and he likes watching her yawn before bed, dressed casually in yoga pants and a sweatshirt. It feels intimate, staying with her, being the one that is cared for by Temperance Brennan.

He doesn't want to go home, to wake up without the familiar sounds and smells he's come to associate with her.

"He doesn't trust me," she says suddenly, handing him a bottle of salad dressing she's made.

"How do you mean?" he murmurs, aware they're talking about the agent she's assisting on a case.

"He doesn't trust the science," she says irritably. "He wants me to explain it all to him – which he then doesn't understand. He's incredulous half the time, insisting that we can't possibly have come to a certain conclusion."

He glances at her, watching her pour herself a glass of wine, holding the bottle over an empty glass in front of his plate, her eyes questioning. "I thought I wasn't allowed to drink," he teases.

She rolls her eyes, setting the bottle down abruptly with a heavy hand. "It just… you don't do that," she says quietly, spearing a cherry tomato with her fork.

"Do what?"

"Make me explain like I need you to approve my findings," she says quietly. "You trust me."

He meets her eyes when she glances up at him, and he nods his head slowly. "Yes, I do."

She hesitates for a moment, not speaking, and then finally nods herself, turning back to her salad. "Did you change your bandages today?" she asks, sipping at her wine.

"Not yet."

In truth, he wants her to do it. He's perfectly capable, has done it once when she stayed late at the lab on Tuesday. But he likes her tending to him, even when she refuses to make eye contact with him while doing it. Her fingers brush against him gently as she quickly changes the bandages from his surgery, adeptly peeling back the paper on new squares of gauze and tearing surgical tape as he sits in front of her silently on a stool.

"My doctor's appointment is tomorrow," he says, popping a bite of the pasta she's made into his mouth and gesturing at the plate with his hand, silently giving his approval while he finishes chewing. "Hopefully he'll give me the go ahead to go back to work."

She eyes him warily. "I don't think you're ready."

Frustrated, he sits back, sighing. "I don't have to jump into the field, Bones. But I can still work on cases with you, I can still –"

"It's risky," she says abruptly, an edge to her voice.

He raises an eyebrow as she drops her eyes to her plate, pushing the food around, no longer eating.

"My _job_ is risky," he says slowly, evenly. "You know that."

She sets her jaw, setting down her fork. "You're not at your full strength. It's foolish to try to go back to a dangerous job when you've just been --" She cuts herself off, balling up her napkin in her lap before glancing at him. "Can't you just wait? Treat this like a vacation or something?"

He snorts. "A vacation? Right. Because when you've been hurt you're really willing to just lie around indefinitely."

"That's different," she snaps, picking up her fork again. "It's safe in my lab."

"But you don't _stay_ in your lab," he volleys back. "Do you?"

She doesn't respond, and they spend the next few minutes eating in silence, the tension settling over them as music still plays comfortably, ironically, in the background. Despite the fact that her plate isn't empty, when she sees his is she stands up, clearing both their dishes and setting them in the sink.

"Let's change your bandage," she says quietly, coming back over to the table; this time he lets her help him stand, despite the fact that he's able to do it himself. She leads him to the couch, easing him carefully down before disappearing down the darkened hall to retrieve the medical supplies.

When she returns, she kneels in front of him, between his knees, and he allows her to lift his shirt up and over his head, raising his arms slowly, sucking in a quick breath at the pull on his injured pectorals. She'd told him when he'd pulled himself groggily from the surgical anesthesia that the bullet punctured his lung, but the real tenderness comes from where they'd had to cut through his muscles to dig out the slug.

In the past, she's changed his bandages with him on a stool, and she has to scoot closer to work with him on the couch, and so he spreads his legs wider to allow her to reach him.

She peels the tape back slowly, her eyes again remaining firmly on the task at hand, and he realizes that this is the moment; this, every night that causes her to shut down, to pull away from him. He can see when she returns from work that she's happy to see him, relieved to be home. It's in her smile and the rich tones of her voice, in the way she moves easily around him.

But this is where things change, where she again establishes her distance. He can't believe he's missed the obvious connection. Sure, he's noticed her unwillingness to talk about that night, has noticed her irritation when he mentions going back to work. But it's obviously this; being confronted with the bruised and stitched injury to his chest that turns everything around, like clockwork. He feels like a fool.

"Bones," he murmurs as she reaches for an antibacterial pad.

"Hmmm?" she murmurs, not glancing up.

He waits, knowing from experience that if he's silent she'll look at him, but she surprises him – she doesn't.

He says her name again, and he sees her frown, the thick fringes of her lashes obscuring her eyes as she gently cleans the wound on his chest, but she still refuses to look at him, stubbornly refusing to tip her chin upward.

"Temperance."

She's still, the sterile pad hovering over his chest for a moment, and he brushes a strand of hair from her cheek. "Look at me."

But she still refuses, her hesitation over as she presses the gauze to his chest. "I need to finish this."

It's his turn to surprise her, jerking his hand up and pulling the sterile pad and the first strip of tape from his skin, exposing the injury again. "Look at me," he says more firmly.

She does finally, raising her head as she attempts to sit back on her heels, but he grabs for her, catching her by the elbows, not letting her pull away.

"I was shot," he says slowly.

Her lashes flutter, and she looks down again. "I know that," she says quietly.

"I was shot," he repeats, "and we don't talk about it."

She's silent for a moment. "I talk about it," she insists finally. "I've talked about it with you many times. I change your bandages, I –"

"You talk about the injury," he says quietly. "Like a doctor would. That's not the same thing."

She tries to pull back from him, but despite his injury, he's still stronger, holding onto her firmly. "Bones," he says quietly. "I need you to listen to me."

Her eyes are flashing with an angry spark he's accustomed to, but he still manages to pick up on the slight tremble in her lower lip, and a new ache spreads through his chest. He doesn't want to hurt her, to make her cry, but he can't let her revert back like this, to lose all the ground he's managed to cover in the last three years.

"I got shot," he says again. "In front of you. I almost died, and you had to kill a woman to protect yourself –"

"_You,_" she says quickly, and he blinks, his heart beating more quickly beneath his ribcage.

"What?"

"_You,_" she repeats. "She was aiming where you were, I couldn't risk her firing anywhere near you again." She sounds angry, but her eyes are shining, wet with unshed tears.

His throat practically closes up. She'd been protecting him, even when her own life had been in danger. The memories are hazy for him, the blanks having been filled in by Hodgins and Angela and Camille over the first few days. They'd said that the gun had been aimed at Bones, that she'd saved herself, his gun that he'd dropped in her hand in a flash before the woman had even been able to fire another round. He'd never considered she'd been doing it for him, that she'd again had to kill someone to protect him.

"I'm sorry," he manages. "I'm sorry you had to do that, that you –"

Again she tries to pull from his grasp and he snaps his legs closed, trapping her again with his thighs against her hips.

"Booth, let me go," she says through clenched teeth. "_Now._"

"No."

"I mean it. I have to –"

"You have to _listen_ to me," he says desperately. "Okay, Temperance? Because I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry," she says angrily. "It wasn't your fault, it was _hers_."

He grabs for her hand, wincing as he presses it to the bruised and angry injury on his chest. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "I'm sorry, because I told you that you could trust me, let you believe I wouldn't leave you," he says, his eyes welling. "But I can't promise you that, can I? It was unfair of me."

She swallows, clenching her eyes shut, her fingers still against the place to the right of his heart where the hole had been days before. "No, you can't," she chokes out. "I never expected you to, it's an absurd notion – it's not something anyone can promise."

His legs still holding her firmly, he lets his other hand slide up to cup her face, his thumb stroking her cheek, and she trembles. "Temperance."

Her eyes remain closed, and moisture gleams at the corners, threatening to spill but clinging instead to her lashes. He remembers suddenly the friends he's lost over the years, the men he's served with, men he's watched die in front of him, unable to protect, and knows how much that hurts, how deeply that cuts.

And he loves her, _has_ loved her. He can barely even entertain what might have happened if Pam hadn't called out to him first, warning him of her intention. He would have been watching his partner sing, watching her jump around stage like a beacon, her face lit up with her smile, only to see her crumple to the floor in front of him, a hole in her chest. It's unbearable, and he trembles, clutching her more tightly.

"Listen to me," he says suddenly, his voice catching. "Open your eyes and look at me – _trust_ me, Temperance."

And she does. Her eyes suddenly blaze into his own, the shimmer catching the lights of the living room, and she waits, despite the fact that he knows she wants to run, to escape and protect herself from this moment, she doesn't. She waits.

"I can't promise I'll never leave you," he says, his voice trembling. "I can't. We lead dangerous lives, we takes risks everyday. This could happen again, there's no way I can promise you it won't."

She sucks in a breath; he sees her diaphragm sinking low in her chest

He suddenly tightens his hold on her, cupping her head more firmly, tilting her head back and leaning closer, their faces only a few inches apart.

"What I can promise you," he rasps, "what I can _swear _to you, is that I'll never willingly leave. I'll never walk away, not while I'm still breathing. And that's all anyone can promise, alright? But I do, I promise you, Temperance Brennan. Right now -- I swear it."

She's frozen, completely still in his arms, and he wonders what she'll do, how she'll react to his oath. If she tries to pull away now he'll let her – he's said what he needed to, and he can't force her to sit and listen again and again. Or maybe she'll allow herself to cry, finally, to let him hold her.

And it's because he closes his own eyes, waiting, that he doesn't see the kiss coming, doesn't know what's happening until her mouth is covering his, until he feels the hot sting of her tears against his own face.

Shocked, his eyes fly open, but hers remain closed. His heart thunders in his chest suddenly, his body finally catching up with his brain, and then he's kissing her back, his arms coming around her and pulling her to him despite the angry protest of his healing muscles.

It's a sweet kiss, not overly insistent at first, her head tilting to move her lips over his. His head is spinning at her response to his words, his blood coursing more quickly, and he suddenly pulls back, sucking in air, his lungs feeling as if they might explode.

And she drops her eyes when he does so, her hand flying to her mouth, her cheeks flushing, and he realizes she thinks he's pulling away from her, that this isn't something that he wants when in reality it's something he's imagined from the first time they met.

He cups her face again, and this time he's the one who kisses her, his mouth reaching, moving over hers. She takes a moment to respond, as he had, and then she's with him again, a sound escaping her as he catches her lower lip between his own. He nuzzles the entrance to her mouth with his tongue, begging admittance, and her lips part damply, allowing him to sweep inside, to stroke the inside of her cheek and meet her own tongue.

Breaking free from him to catch her breath, she allows him to pull her up and into his lap, and he holds her, again pressing her hand to his chest, her fingertips falling on the heavy, dark stitches. "I'm still here," he rasps. "Okay? Don't shut me out."

And then she's crying -- deep, breathless sobs, her face burying itself in his neck, and he holds her, relived as she finally lets it out, releases what she's been holding in every night as she cooks him dinner, every morning as she brews them coffee.

"Booth," she says, struggling to pull from him, wiping her eyes. "I'm sorry. You're the one who was hurt, and here I am, crying like –"

"You looked after me," he whispers, pulling her back to him, his hand coming up to stroke her hair. "Now let me look after you."

_**tell me how you feel...**_


End file.
